The Book of Lies (29 page)

“I don’t believe it,” he adds as his voice picks up speed. He’s not scared anymore. He’s excited. “Those sneaky sons of bitches—when you match up the moons . . . It’s like you said—just like they did with the KKK.”

He peels the final wet panel—the one with the man and the torch—from the table, then lowers it toward the others, overlapping its moon with the rest. “Hidden in front of everyone.”

I study the panels again but still come up empty.

“You really don’t see it?” he asks.

I stare again. It’s still a mess. “Lloyd, tell me what the hell I’m looking at. Is it something in the middle or—”

“Not the middle. On the outside. Wait, lemme . . .” From his front pocket, my dad pulls out a cocktail napkin—looks like it’s from a bar—and covers the center panel. On the napkin is the handwritten note “
GATH 601174-7.
” The container number from the original shipment. But that’s not what he cares about.
“Here,”
my father says as he presses the napkin into place. “How ’bout now?”

His fingers race as he traces the outer edges of each panel. “We just— We had it wrong. It’s not a Book of Lies at all. It’s a Book of— Book of—”

“Truth,” Serena and I mutter simultaneously as we study the outer panels and read clockwise.

“Book of Truth,” I repeat. “That’s great, but— I don’t— What’s that even mean?”

“It means here’s how the panels are supposed to be,” he says, still excited.

“I thought it was supposed to have who killed Jerry’s dad,” Serena points out.

“Maybe it’s not,” I say. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Do we even know what a Book of Truth is?” Serena asks.

“I think . . . that’s what some people call the Bible, isn’t it?” my dad says, rotating the napkin and still fiddling with the letters that show up in the overlap.

“T-H-U-L-E,” my father spells out, pressing his finger on the H as it seeps through the wet napkin. “Who’s Thule?” he asks, his voice much slower, as though he’s confused. “Or maybe Theul or . . . Uleth?”

“Maybe that’s the killer’s name,” Serena points out.

“Maybe it’s someone Jerry knew,” my dad adds.

“Or maybe the curator had it wrong,” I say.

But as all three of us sit there, crowded around the table and lost amid what feels like another dead end, my father freezes.

“I don’t think the curator had it wrong,” he announces. His voice is still flying, but as he motions to the art, his mouth falls open and he shakes his head. Forget excitement. He’s back to fear. “Oh, God. This is— Serena, this is bad.”

Like before, he’s staring down at the panels. But with all our sitting around, the water has now soaked through the napkin that covers them. Like before, he’s the only one who sees it.

“What? What’re you looking at?” she asks.

“Their symbol . . . it’s their symbol. . . .”

“Whose symbol?” I ask, scanning each of the outer panels. “The KKK?”

“Worse.”

“Who’s worse?”

My father points back to the moon, but it’s not until he slaps his palm against the art—like he’s swatting a fly—that the water fully seeps through the napkin and I finally see what he’s talking about. It’s not just the letters on the flaps. It’s the picture that’s created when you line up the images underneath.

A flush of blood buzzes my ears. A sharp burn ignites inside my chest, as if there’s someone curled inside my rib cage trying to kick his way out.

The curator had it only partly right. Jerry Siegel didn’t know the exact person who killed his dad. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know who the killer worked for. Or who we’re now up against.

Even in 1932, there was no mistaking a swastika.

59

I
’m not a Nazi, Ellis had told himself when he first read the diary. Yes, his grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s names both had been found on the officer list kept by the ITS, the International Tracing Service, which kept some of the most meticulous records of the atrocities. His grandfather even served briefly at the Wolf’s Lair in East Prussia. But their allegiance was never to Hitler. Their allegiance was to Thule. Always Thule.

That’s what made them Leadership.

Of course, the swastika confused the issue. Today, it was nothing more than the Nazis’ symbol of death. But the swastika existed long before the Nazis, dating back over three thousand years, when it was a symbol of life, good luck, the sun, and even the spinning thunderbolts of Thor’s ancient hammer to fight evil spirits.

Most important, as Ellis learned from the diaries, it wasn’t Adolf Hitler who chose the swastika. Indeed, it was used years earlier, selected by the elite Germans—his great-grandfather among them—who made up the Thule Society.

From its earliest days, the elders of Thule chose their membership carefully from German aristocracy. Yes, they began as occultists, which usually brings to mind crazies in long cloaks. But the original Thule members—the Leadership—knew there was nothing crazy about the quest for the secrets and origins of the universe.

Thule, after all, meant “the mystic center” and “God’s order.” And in ancient times, Ultima Thule—
the farthest land
—was rumored to be a secret island, well-known as the true home of a long-lost and supremely powerful German race. The Leadership was committed to bringing that power back.

It was their research into early archaeology that led to the discovery of so many of the ancient totems. But their true goal was always the all-important one: the priceless find that the Coptic monks had carried all the way from Egypt. It was the Leadership’s mastery of runic symbols that let them decipher the messages the monks had left behind—and sent them to the rock art site in Sweden, to the cave covered with the carved lines and circles. The Leadership weren’t the only ones. The Russians and Americans were on the trail, too. At the turn of the century, this was the time when so many of the totems were tracked by governments and hidden in their museums. But at the cave—in April 1900—the Thules were unquestionably first.

Back then, lesser men would’ve focused on the scenes of the animals and warriors that were carved on the walls. The Thules knew better. When they saw the ancient carving of the man with the raised arms—the rune known as “the Son of God”—they knew what they’d found.

From God to Adam. From Adam to Cain. The treasured birthright that brought murder into the world. That kept men invulnerable, invincible. And that would lead them to the true ancient origins of the first Aryan race.

Ellis knew it wasn’t far.

Keeping his head down as he walked through the sliding doors, Ellis headed for the reception desk, where a Hispanic woman clicked at a computer. His lower back was still on fire—he hadn’t been smart in his encounter with Cal’s father, hadn’t expected the fury inside him. But as he reminded himself from last night, the trickster was full of surprises.

Fortunately, so was Ellis.

“I’m looking for a patient,” he said to the receptionist. “She came in within the last hour or so. Naomi Molina.”

“Gimme one second,” the receptionist replied.

Ellis could still remember standing in the lawyer’s office, how his feet felt like tree roots sinking into the earth when he first read his great-grandfather’s theory. So much of it made sense. Indeed, murder is what makes us human. But the Book that Cain carried wasn’t given as punishment. It was a reward. For repenting.

A gift from God.

The Russians wanted it as simple religious proof. The Americans chased it, thinking it was a weapon. But based on the runes, the Thules knew what the Coptic monks had really unearthed in Egypt—and how they survived their trip from half a world away. Cain’s
Book
contained more than just a way to live. God had given him far more than that.

Maybe the monks were afraid of the power. The Leadership had no such problems. And apparently, in a lightning bolt of good fortune, neither did Mitchell Siegel.

It took years for the Leadership to recover from the massacre with the Russians. But as with a broken bone, injury and healing made it stronger. By 1917, the Thules widened their net, attracting over 250 followers. By 1918, they incorporated the ancient and powerful swastika into their coat of arms. And in 1919, they attracted the eye of a young failed painter named Adolf Hitler. A man who desperately wanted to be somebody. And who wasn’t afraid of power.

Was it any surprise that
Mein Kampf
was dedicated to Thule member Dietrich Eckart? Or that Hitler credited Thule elder Dr. Friedrich Krohn with designing the swastika flag that the Nazis adopted?

Under Hitler, many Thules—Heinrich Himmler and Rudolf Hess among them—were absorbed into the highest positions of the Nazi Party. But even as their political power grew, the Leadership never lost sight of what had been stolen. Or how it might be found.

In 1930, they made their first contact with a dissatisfied member of the United States’ new Bureau of Investigation. By 1932, they had Mikhel Segalovich’s new name and address. And today, over a century later, Ellis was finally ready to finish what his family had begun.

“You related to Ms. Molina?” the Hispanic woman asked, flipping through her clipboard.

“She’s my wife,” Ellis replied.

“Exam room E. Third curtain on the right.”

It’d been well over an hour since Cal and his dad had run from the house. Ellis knew they were long gone. But Naomi was a different story. Ellis had seen the blood running down the side of her face. A wound like that needed a hospital. And if Ellis was right, finding Naomi would also help him find the Prophet. Indeed, maybe she
was
the Prophet.

It was simple math. When Cal and Naomi left the museum, there were only four people who knew that the group was headed back to the Siegel house: Cal knew. Naomi knew. Plus Lloyd and the woman. Serena. Four people. And since the Prophet knew, the Prophet had to be one of them.

All along, Ellis assumed it was the trickster: Cal’s father. But when he saw the group on the stairs—when he saw Naomi being carried by Cal . . . and her earpiece dangling downward . . . Her phone. The earpiece.

There it was.

Her earpiece.

Such a simple way for someone to overhear.

Naturally, Ellis didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But if Naomi
was
reporting in—whether to stay safe or just get information—Ellis’s math was wrong. There weren’t just four people who knew that Cal was headed back to the Siegel house. There were five. And if that was the case, well . . . Ellis had to know: Who the hell
was
Naomi speaking to when she was talking into that earpiece?

“It’s me!” a familiar female voice shouted angrily from the corner of the emergency room. “Where the hell you been, Scotty?”

Following the sound, Ellis turned to his right and stared at the closed blue curtain that was now just a few feet in front of him. Scotty. The only other person who heard everything was Scotty. Scotty heard what was happening. Scotty knew what was coming. Scotty knew it all in advance. Like an oracle. Or a seer. Or a prophet.

“Scotty, can you hear me? Where you been!?”
Naomi yelled.

Ellis nodded to himself.

That was a damn good question for Scotty.